The Mistress Who Ran Away With The Twins-Chapter 178: Switching sides?

The moment Sylvia turned away and walked back toward the staff area, Ingrid’s gaze burned into her back. She couldn’t make sense of it. Rome’s mother, Rosanna, had sided with Sylvia. Just like that.

Only after Sylvia disappeared from view did Ingrid finally turn to Mrs. Hariston.

"How can you believe her so easily?" Ingrid demanded, her voice tight, trembling with disbelief. "Mother... you didn’t even hesitate."

Mrs. Hariston calmly lifted her glass of water, took a small sip, her expression composed, almost unreadable.

Ingrid stared at her, incredulous.

"Did you forget your reaction the other day?" she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. "You were furious! Furious when you found out Rome was spending time with her again. You blamed her for everything! You called her a disaster—a walking disaster in Rome’s life!"

Rosanna sat perfectly still, her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her usual elegant composure remained, but now there was an edge—cold and distant. She wasn’t defending Sylvia.

Ingrid waited, expecting a scoff, a dismissal, a sharp retort—but nothing came. Instead, Mrs. Hariston slowly lifted her gaze, and when her eyes locked onto Ingrid’s, it was like being stripped bare.

It wasn’t disappointment. It wasn’t anger.

It was something far colder. Calculating.

The sight made Ingrid’s breath hitch.

"Why wouldn’t I believe her?" Mrs. Hariston asked softly, her tone deceptively calm.

Ingrid blinked, flustered. "What...?"

Everyone at the table shifted uneasily, glancing between the two women. The rising tension was thick enough to choke on.

"Mother," Ingrid said, forcing out a laugh that sounded hollow even to her own ears, "this is ridiculous. She’s Sylvia. You know exactly who she is."

Mrs. Hariston tilted her head slightly, her gaze unwavering. Her silence carried more weight than any retort Ingrid could have mustered.

"She’s poor," Ingrid continued, irritation sharpening her tone. "She has no family. No background. No status. She came from nothing. How could she possibly be Sylvester Lincolm’s sister, right?"

Two of Ingrid’s friends leaned in, whispering to each other, nodding in agreement.

"Ingrid is right, Mrs. Hariston," one of them said, voice low but conspiratorial. "If that woman managed to steal Rome from Ingrid more than once, then it wouldn’t be surprising if she tried to latch onto other powerful men as well."

Another laughed softly, brittle and sharp. "Or maybe it’s probably just another one of her tricks—so we don’t underestimate her. Like, she happens to have a surname like Lincolm, so she’s using it to scare us..."

"I agree with that," said a friend of Rosanna’s. "From what I’m seeing, it’s just impossible to imagine a Lincolm looking like a vagrant. "

Ingrid’s triumphant smirk spread across her face.

"See?" she said, gesturing toward them. "Of course she’s lying. Sylvia is Sylvia. She can seduce any man she wants. She already seduced Rome—so what’s stopping her from seducing Sylvester? You know she’s good at it, and men like them aren’t exceptions."

Her lips curled in disdain. "So don’t believe her when she says she’s a Lincolm. There’s no way she’s telling the truth. She’s just using that surname not to make herself look pitiful."

A ripple of quiet laughter spread across the table.

Mrs. Hariston inhaled slowly, a controlled, measured breath. The laughter vanished almost immediately.

"You know, Ingrid," she said, her voice low, cutting, precise, "I have always taken your side. I listened to you more than I listened to my own son. Perhaps... it is time I stop doing that."

Ingrid stiffened. Her fingers tightened on the glass, nails digging faint grooves into her palm.

"W-what... what do you mean?"

Mrs. Hariston’s eyes didn’t waver. They pierced, sharp and steady, holding Ingrid accountable.

"I let you do whatever you wanted," she said, calm but deliberate, "even when you ensured Sylvia’s life was ruined the moment she ran away."

Ingrid’s jaw tightened. She opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but the truth in Rosanna’s words pressed down like a weight she could not lift.

"M-mother, what are you saying?" Ingrid asked, uncomfortable, faltering.

"I said you made sure—you ruined Sylvia," Mrs. Hariston continued, "that she could not find a single job. You spread rumors. You used your family’s influence to erase every opportunity she had."

She shook her head slowly.

"And now," she added, tasting the words before releasing them, "she is standing inside Sylvincolm’s restaurant—owned by Sylvester Lincolm himself. How can you explain that she’s still working, when you made sure she couldn’t land a single job—even as a janitor? Unless she has a connection to him, that would not be possible."

The room fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even Ingrid’s friends leaned back because of rising tension.

Mrs. Hariston leaned back slightly, her face calm but unwavering.

"Tell me, Ingrid," she said evenly, "how did she manage that if she truly had no connection to him?"

Ingrid opened her mouth, then closed it. Her mind raced, frantic, searching for an explanation, but the words refused to come.

"That’s easy—do you even need to ask that mother?" she scoffed after a beat. "She obviously seduced Sylvester! And I don’t believe her when she says she’s Sylvester’s sister, when it’s a known fact to everyone that he never had one. You know that too, Mother."

Mrs. Hariston’s gaze swept across the table, cold, sharp, and unflinching. The chill in her eyes froze everyone in place. Then, slowly, she turned her full attention back to Ingrid.

"You speak as if you’re already sure." she said calmly, words like ice. "What if she’s right? What do you think will happen to you? Can you handle that?"

Ingrid crossed her arms, face flushed, anger boiling. "Wait—Mother, are you taking her side now?"

"I am taking no one’s side." Mrs. Hariston replied, measured, precise.

Ingrid laughed, sharp and bitter. "Really? But why does it sound like you’re taking her side? Did you already forget? She’s the reason Rome and I divorced! And what about everything I’ve done to Sylvia before? You think you’re any different! Just because she happens to have the surname Lincolm, you’re suddenly switching sides?"

Ingrid froze for a fraction of a second, then laughed again. "Anyone can lie about their surname."

"There’s nothing wrong with believing her."

"There is something wrong with it!" Ingrid snapped. "She’s a lowly woman!"

"But you are no different.." Mrs. Hariston said coldly.

The table fell completely silent.

"What?" Ingrid whispered, disbelief and anger mingling. "Did you just say I’m like her?"

"Yes," Mrs. Hariston said simply. "You are."

Ingrid’s face drained of color. The words struck harder than she had anticipated.

"You and Greece cheated on Rome," Mrs. Hariston continued, calm but cutting. "That’s why Gabriel exists. Am I wrong?"

A sharp intake of breath echoed in the room. None of Ingrid’s friends spoke.

"How dare you!" Ingrid hissed.

"The truth does not cease being the truth just because you do not want to hear it." Mrs. Hariston said evenly.

Ingrid shot to her feet, fists clenched, teeth bared. "You’re choosing her over me?"

"I am choosing no one." Mrs. Hariston said firmly.

Ingrid spun sharply toward the waitress. "Bring the bill! I’m leaving!"

The waitress returned moments later. "I’m sorry, ma’am. Your bill has already been paid."

"By who?" Ingrid demanded, incredulous.

"By Miss Sylvia Lincolm."

Ingrid’s breath caught. "How much?" 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

"Five thousand dollars." the waitress replied.

Her lips parted, disbelief flooding her features. "There’s no way," she whispered. "There’s no way she’s a Lincolm..."

Her gaze drifted toward the hallway, as if expecting to catch sight of Sylvia herself.

Ingrid’s hands trembled as she shoved her chair back. The clatter of metal legs against the tile floor echoed sharply through the restaurant.

"I can’t believe this!" she spat, voice shaking with fury. "I don’t have to listen to this—to any of this!"

She stormed toward the exit, heels clicking against the tile like gunshots. Her anger boiled over, a storm she could not control.

She was almost at the door when a movement out of the corner of her eye froze her mid-step.

Greece.

He was approaching, casual, unbothered, with that impossible, amused grin she had secretly despised for years. That grin that made him seem untied to the chaos around him.

For a heartbeat, Ingrid forgot her anger. Her fury caught in her chest, suspended. Her jaw tightened, lips pressed into a thin line.

"What... are you doing here?" she asked, voice lower now, clipped, sharp.

Greece tilted his head, grin lingering, almost teasing. "Just passing by...and I couldn’t help but notice a little commotion."

Ingrid’s fists balled at her sides. Every nerve screamed to turn and leave, but she couldn’t. That grin... it infuriated her.

She swallowed, forcing herself to keep walking, brushing past him lightly, letting the distance speak for her.

Greece chuckled softly, low and knowing. "Seriously you never fail to amuse me." he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

She turned sharply, forcing herself past him, shoulder brushing lightly against his arm, letting the tension linger in the air between them.

**************

Sylvia’s POV....

I was in the office when Anna knocked lightly.

"Miss Sylvia," she said carefully, "Mrs. Hariston would like to speak with you."

My stomach dropped. Rome’s mother.

I glanced instinctively at Cairo. He was sitting quietly, watching me with wide, trusting eyes. His small hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

Fear crawled up my spine.

"She’s... waiting?" I asked cautiously.

Anna nodded. "Outside."

I exhaled slowly, bracing myself. There was no avoiding it now. I stepped out.

Rosanna stood alone, leaning slightly against the wall, hands clasped loosely in front of her. She turned when she saw me, and for the first time—she didn’t look furious. She didn’t look judgmental. She looked... tired.

"Sylvia," she said quietly.

I straightened instinctively. "Mrs. Hariston."

A pause, heavy and deliberate.

Then, unexpectedly, she said, "I owe you an apology."

The words stunned me.

"For years," she continued, "I believed what was convenient. I believed what protected my son from pain—without realizing I was helping create it."

My throat tightened. I wanted to speak, to protest, to say something—but I couldn’t find the words.